To the Birds Outside My Window

To the Birds outside my window,
This morning of June, hour’d four thirty-three,
While I love thy chipper tunes
As my romanticized, rose-blind view of the sea,
Thy song hath boiled the morn to bubble, and steep
A black-leaf tea, surging caffeine,
When I really fuckin’ need to sleep.

And now Time has trickled to quarter’till,
Thoughts start dissecting immortality,
As I’m devoid of any control or will,
Snagged on a sleep-ridden congeniality.
O, Birds! Ye with feathers white and red and umber,
The Bell tolls five now, and echoes o’er the bay,
And thou hast snatched my soft, sappy slumber,
Thus, I can tell, from ante-dawn,
It’s bound to be a long-ass day.
So, fuck it! Birds! Chirp on!

The Cellar

The door to the dank, dark wine cellar
Flung open as space split wide,
Bled more a stank so rank and stellar,
An embrace – a hit – of something that had died.

Still I stepped down atop that creaking stair
– ‘Twas so warped by moldy dew –
And as a new-leapt bird streaking through the air
The rot uncorked – I hacked – and instinct told me what to do.

Every clenching inch of my revolted body
Then struck me with a crippling spasm;
For that wrenching stench unbolted, and did embody
A fluid muck, a fetor rippling, oozing from that chasm.

So, with a sense of urgency, I pivoted a full one-eighty
And tried to make my way back from the top-most stair –
But the stink so dense gave no clemency, it riveted so greatly,
Just as the nether-slide I took that day, ‘twas impossible to forbear.

For the pine beneath my tattered-boot cracked,
And fell I with such a sudden drop,
So direct a line, a straight-down chute, to be attacked
By a stinking shine, a coughing clutch, I fell with a putrid plop.

I tumbled down like a sack of guts,
Sloshing and flopping whole my fall,
I rumbled – splattered – back slashed by cuts,
Blood-shower washing, flesh-scraps dropping, crying my sad call.

Then o’er echoed such a sound, one never to be forgotten
One which resonates, reverberates, and ricochets in my ears;
A thud I can’t let go – head hitting the ground –  soaked in the rotten
Stench – that perforates; sound – that retaliates; stays throughout my years.

My neck then popped and shook when I lifted my head,
As if a newborn child, clawing from the womb;
I was a wreck, my heart stopped, when I took a look at the dead
Thrashed, and torn – as if by something wild, gnawing – body in that tomb.

There, perched above the spoiled flesh, like a feasting, feral hound,
There sat and sipped, bit and nipped the master of the homestead.
I lurched, recoiled -sharp as a bee sting – and upward did I bound;
Again, I slipped, on skin like dampened plaster, which from the corpse did shed.

The master, in his dining clothes, chuckled, glugged, and grinned
As he took another bite from the mushy, rotting muscle;
Then, even faster, chomped three toes, and swigged some blood like wind;
And I so shook ‘pon seeing that his slushie was made of my friend Russel.

But my employer then called to me “Come now, Butler, see!
I have a plate set for you, and some cutlery!
I know he was your dearest friend, but I beg you to dine
Upon his flesh, and sip his blood which I’ve fermented into wine!”

The Dock, the Tides

The dock had been dismantled
Flesh ripped away
Now all that’s left are the bones
Aged wooden legs
Rebellious. Resilient. Resistant to decay
They’ve stomped the tests of time
Straddled sprinting waters of the bay
Hurtled over highs and lows
Ran with the Mariner’s Rime
Undressed to the ebbs and flows
Tap-danced a pantomime
So you’d be right in assuming
The notion that’s been looming
For only the legs of the Dock knows
How in the end – the depth always grows
But how could legs so devout, Dedicated
Have fallen in love with the waves so fickle
Why would ocean return, just to be subjugated
By the legs that slash him like a sickle
Perhaps it’s why they were both  created
To fall in love with what they should have hated
But still, once again, up the legs like a trickle
Over where the deck would’ve been
The sea returned and held her whole
Flooding himself through her marrow
Embracing all that did reside within
For the day apart had took its toll
And until the first cry of Dawn’s sparrow
The Tides and the legs of the dock
As if shot through them both, an arrow
Will, in an embrace, roll
Like quelling storm within a soul
Then peeps a little whisper , faint as a  feather
That perplexes, yet soothes them with a shock
Two endless mates, the tides, the dock
Could through any hardship weather
And until ’till times final tock
Would be forever alone

via Daily Prompt: Final


She didn’t technically  work on Colfax Avenue,
Because she thought that would be too suspicious;
And unlike the other gals, she didn’t dress in black or blue
Because she wanted to stand out, to be auspicious.
But it didn’t really matter, because the johns didn’t care,
The only thing they wanted was a little lower fare,
And so hope got in the way for pink-dressed Claire.

She had arrived in Denver about a month back,
Thought that going out West would be a change of pace
From the grimy East Coast streets, allies of the back
That had always held her down, and spat in her face.
But to leave New York, she’d have to sell her body like before
As means and methods to get her foot in the door
To move out West, go to school, and not be ashamed anymore.

But that didn’t happen for Claire, not in any shape or form.
Upon landing in the Mountain State, she was struck
By a stalking, a creeping, a back-of-the-neck breathing, damp and warm
Social construct, a necessity saying “Girl, you gotta’ fuck”.
For a single drop of downtrodden dejection spreads like a rash,
And it’s only cured by a surplus of, but also caused by the lack of cash.
It’s a self-perpetuating system that turns people into ash.

Now, I hope you don’t think poorly of her choices,
Because she tried, once in Denver, to set her life straight.
But restaurants don’t want waitresses with scars and charred voices,
And Claire’s constantly baggy eyes suggested she stayed up too late.
So she was forced, by her circumstances, to go back to the streets;
Those long and hollow hallways, which shamefully defeats
The bright eyes of gals like Claire, and slows their heartbeats.

Now even to this day, well, at lease I hope (should I?) that she’s still alive,
You can catch her in her pink dress on a side-street called North Ogden.
If you ever happen to be in Denver, and down East Colfax drive,
Do me a favor; if you see her, and what she’s been bogged in
Don’t pull over and try to pick her up, or “cure” her with a prayer;
Don’t give her pity-pennies, or what shallow gestures you can “spare”.
Instead, simply just to remind her that she’s still human, please smile at Claire.



via Daily Prompt: Pink

What They Lacked on the Road

After twelve days of preparation,
The fatal Friday fell
When the people of Lost Creek, Kentucky
Went down the road that led to Hell.

Under light of dead-star constellation,
Those poor folk walked along the road,
And though a black-cat crossing read an omen unlucky,
No one thought of the weight that symbol bode.

Except for one young girl,
Usually nervous, and locked up in her shell,
Six months away from turning seven,
The sweet little blonde-haired Annabelle.

Her wide-open eyes saw the leaves’n’wind twirl,
As the townsfolk walked under trees like arching ladder.
She saw that the path lead not to the house of Heaven,
But no one thought that her cries did matter.

The townsfolk continued on the walk
And a light rain sprinkled like spilling salt.
They came to a puddle that looked like a mirror,
Which broke underfoot, as none did over it vault.

And when their wagons wheel hit a rock,
The thump startled the people of the town.
Annabelle whimpered, but no one did hear her
When she saw the lucky horseshoe fall U-side down.

The people on their journey went on and on around,
That path that snaked like a rivers tail.
And only young Annabelle had seen the streaks of fur
But her warnings were to no avail.

They kept on talking, and didn’t hear the sound,
As their prayers were cycling like a carousel.
None of the townsfolk noticed the werewolves bolt in a blur
Except for young blonde-haired Annabelle.

The rest of the story, I wish not to tell
For I want not to think of poor Annabelle.
Who longed for nothing more than the ol’ homestead
And now on that road, she lies cold and dead.
For although those pilgrims each had loaded gun,
Had they no chance to ever outrun
The wolves that hunt under lack of sun,
On those who are devoid of luck, and those folks had none.

via Daily Prompt: None

The Grip

They said that it was required;
A quintessential step in my indoctrination.
But they didn’t mention that getting so tired
Was from a potion to help with my castration.

They strapped me onto a shoddy wooden table
As they licked, and whispered into my ear.
They bound me fast with a rusty cable
And called me a “precious little dear”.


For a moment I tried to fight back,
I lurched and squirmmed with my fleeting might.
But it only slid me deeper into the crack
That those witches dragged me through that night.

The oldest of the those in the clan
Slicked a rusty knife with boil-ridden lips,
And she ran her moldy fingers to my little man,
And dug her splintered nails into my naked hips.

The potion was doing its work by then,
And I was beginning to lose all feeling –
Until that knife did what it does to all poor men
Who think that joining a cult is appealing,

via Daily Prompt: Control

Ol’ #9 Line


Took a seat, alone, down on the Ol’ Nine Line.

Tucked a fifth of whiskey under the belt.

And although it’s just a remedy,

A false sense of feeling fine,

For a while now, it’s the best I’ve ever felt.


The train’s a’screeching on the rusty tracks

Every time it pulls through another station.

Though I doubt that you can hear me,

Way down South through the volcanic cracks

I’m scratching you a poem, a lamentation.


So, tell me Jacob, what’s it like down there?

Is it as hot as you had hoped?

Or does it feel more like a dream?

Or does it make you fucking scream?

Not getting mad – just saying that I never really coped.


Well from up North, I can give you a quick break down.

Everything’s been falling straight to shit.

All the bombings, terrorism –

Been making me rethink nihilism,

Wish you had as well, before you decided to quit.


Yeah, it’s taken me a really long while now

To write, and get all this off my chest.

Been eight long agonizing seasons,

But I’m sure you had your reasons         ,

So perhaps it really was just for the best.


Though I’ve been grinding my yellow teeth –

Just knowing that the cold-dark ground,

Is what you’re trapped beneath –

Without a drink, a friend, or sound.

So, Jacob,  keep your bright eyes open,

– And I’m not saying that I’m hopin’ –

I might just soon enough be coming ‘round.

Shotgun Wedding


We were drinkin’ in the living room,

Gin-drunk spinnin’ – place felt like a tomb.

She was supposed to get married,

But her mind got carried

Away by the fleein’ groom.


Half an hour waiting – we thought we were done –

Then she asked “Boys, where’s the shotgun?”

We slurred “Baby, don’t ya’ do it,

Darlin’, you’ll a’rue it” –

She replied “Girls just wanna’ have fun.”


So she hiked up her weddin’ dress

– Her legs bled unhappiness –

She climbed each and every stair

Sreamin’ “Goddamn, I don’t care,

I’m gonna’ make a fuckin’ mess!”


We all jumped up – well, we stumbled –

And I’m sure that we all mumbled:

“Get a grip on your head!”

“Ya’ don’t want him dead!”

As after her we up’n’tumbled.


Top of the stairs – she was in the Master,

Even in high heels, the gal ran faster.

She found the gun box,

Bare hands – Ripped off the locks,

And armed herself like a pastor.


And though we wanted to intervene,

Her eyes were flamin’ a burnin’ green.

She looked damn venomous

– Or maybe just envious –

Most terrifyin’ thing we’d ever seen.


She barged right on past us with rage,

Hoped in the truck – didn’t even check the gauge –

Hollered “Someone take the wheel!”

And we were bound to the ordeal,

It was too late to disengage.


So I hopped into the driver seat,

And I could hear her throbin’ heartbeat,

Poundin’ with fury,

She was pantin’ “You’d best hurry!”

And I stomped the gas pedal with my feet.


We barreled down frontage road thirty-three,

Rest of the clan starin’ forward at me,


Didn’t want to be part of the murder,

But the boy had hurt her,

Revenge is part of bein’ a Western family.


We were three miles outside of town –

When sis – still in her weddin’ gown –

Saw her husband-would’ve been,

Her face grew a grievous grin,

That said “We ‘bout to run this bastard down.”


She perched the blaster right ‘bove her hip,

Blew a kiss from her bottom lip,

Didn’t even peer down the sight

– Just shot through the night –

And we saw the tuxedo boy take a trip.


He fell flat on his well-dressed chest,

Sis said “I’ll take care of the rest”

Opened the door, over joyed,

And like Pretty Boy Floyd

She brought murder back to the West.


A truly savage bit of blood-shedding.

Damn near brutal as a French beheading,

But she strolled back to the truck

And sighed “Well fuck,

Now that’s what I call a shotgun wedding.”

The Strategy of Sex


For me, the similarities of sex and war

Reside within the need for fury and planning –

And there’s always a need for a little bit more

Ammunition, artillery, and skirmish-field planning.


I’m not saying that sex is a battle

Fought between two opposing forces –

But it should, like a tank, shake the bed to rattle,

And make you pant like Calvary horses.


For the bed is a lot like Normandy beach,

Each thrust, a boot, dropped on the sand –

So we moan out loud “Into the breach!”

And try to make our partners do as we command.


There’s a constant mission – Rip off her dress –

For what lies beneath is softer than satin,

But to conquer it takes more than just skill at chess,

You need the cunning and speed of General Patton.


Though there’s more than just one essential point to capture –

There are different locations you need to pommel;

So, if you really want victory, that surging rapture,

You’ve got to multi-task like ‘The Desert Fox’ Rommel.


And you can’t give up, never surrender –

Fuck for you life, like you’re in the streets of Stalingrad;

Be you either the attacker, or the defender,

Perseverance will yield the best sex you’ve ever had.


Reword what Churchill said, when spoke he of conflict –

Keep going – “however long and hard the road may be”.

And if you’re in charge, remember to be strict,

Because it works pretty well for my paramour and me.


Although learn from the mistakes of defeats long past,

And don’t let your pride overwhelm your doubt –

While you should be dedicated, vehement, and steadfast,

Don’t be like Hitler, know when to pull out.

5:00 A.M After a Four-Hour-Fuck


‘Tis perhaps a bromidic expression of affection –

But damn, is it sincere.

Passion purple lines, veins of infection,

Addiction – Can’t wait to see her.

It defies all survivalist logic or science

But that’s how we humans are –

We cling to romance with a bit’a blood of violence

As passion alone doesn’t scar.


Here’s to hoping at least one mark stains forever–

A Souvenir of the memory.


And despite the fact that back-scratches are trite,

(A lil’ bit overdone, and used by everyone)

A feverdream sweats that the painting left in the night

Will on for a few more days run.


Van Gogh couldn’t compare

To the streaks she claws into me.


I’m so caught between thinking it’s tragic, and perfect

That such a masterpiece will fade.

But time will prompt her to inflict

Another ivory midnight painting with lustful shade.


More human – more real –

Than the Moan-a Lisa could be;

The only portrait that I really feel,

As I’m the tapestry.


My lover, the artist,

Her nails, the brush,

Inspiration, a tryst –

Fuck. What a rush.